


hysteria

by youcouldmakealife



Series: but always in tandem [25]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-09 23:13:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8916826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “Get off me,” Robbie snaps. Georgie pulls him bodily away from the dude, fingers digging into Robbie’s arm.“You’re drunk, you’re obvious, and everyone’s watching,” Georgie hisses, low. “You want to be on Deadspin tomorrow? Because you keep this up, you’re going to be on there for hitting a guy or hitting on a guy, and your mom’s going to fucking cry, which I don’t think you want.”





	

The Caps tryout goes, well —

Salonen’s recovering from offseason hip surgery, and they need a D-man for the preseason, some regular season, but he’s due back late October, and Rutledge is straight up with him. “You’re a great fit and we’d be happy to have you,” Rutledge says. Robbie had been excited, seeing him, the GM deigning to speak to someone on a ATO, but now he’s got a bad feeling. “But I’m going to be straight with you: with our current roster we can’t guarantee you a place on the Capitals. In our organization, absolutely, but —”

But the chances of Robbie staying up in Washington after Salonen’s back drop to ‘not fucking likely, bro’. They’ve got their full-set once Salonen’s back, plus scratches, which means Robbie would spend the season in Hershey, guiltily hoping someone sucks or gets injured, even then probably would only be up as back-up, watching from the press box. Hershey isn’t _bad_ necessarily, they’re one of the best teams in the AHL, but honestly he’d prefer to play with the Terriers than the Bears, and says so.

“I thought you might,” Rutledge says. “You’ve got a lot of potential, Robbie. I’d like you to come back to training camp next season, if you’re interested.”

“Sure, thanks,” Robbie says, and tries to smile even though he feels a little like he got socked in the gut. It’s whatever. He told Georgie from the start it was just an invitation to training camp, that it wasn’t a contract.

That’s what he tells Georgie, after. Georgie’s a thousand fucking miles away — or like, three-hundred and something right now, Robbie checked, but same difference since he’s too far away to see. He’s got school starting in a week, and Georgie’s got preseason. Robbie doesn’t know the next time he’s going to see him, and it makes him want to cry. 

“I’m so sorry, babe,” Georgie says.

“Yeah,” Robbie says, impatiently knuckles over his eyelids. “It is what it is, though.”

“They’re morons,” Georgie says. “They’re fucking morons.”

“Nah,” Robbie says. “I just wasn’t good enough.”

“Don’t say shit like that when I’m too far away to hit you for it,” Georgie says.

“Put ‘em in a trust,” Robbie says. “Like, next time you see me you can hit me, like, a thousand fucking times because who knows the next—”

“Robbie,” Georgie interrupts. “Please.”

“Fine,” Robbie says. He misses Georgie so much it’s stupid, considering he saw him two weeks ago. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to do with himself. He’s already started scanning the Barons schedule, comparing it to the Terriers’, to his classes, trying to figure out when he can head to Cleveland without fucking shit up academically. There aren’t enough. He’s sure even if there were plenty it still wouldn’t feel like enough, but there really, really aren’t enough.

“I really hate feeling guilty about this,” Georgie says.

“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty,” Robbie says. “You shouldn’t feel guilty.”

“Well,” Georgie says. “I do anyway.”

“Sorry,” Robbie says.

“Not your fault,” Georgie says. “I really miss you.”

“Yeah,” Robbie says. “You too.”

*

The Caps lose to the Rangers. It’s a bad loss, the kind that’s fucking embarrassing, even more so on home ice, and Robbie wants to fuck shit up. Usually those kind of losses you hole up, lick your wounds, especially when you’re at home, but Robbie needs a drink or five, and he’s not the only one. A lot of the guys bow out, including Quincy, who gives him a look like ‘behave’ and Crane, who gives him a look like ‘behave’ and Matty, who isn’t looking at him and Robbie hates that, Robbie _fucking_ hates that, but a half dozen of them are in, and that’s all they need.

They go to a place in Arlington that doesn’t really cater to a hockey crowd, which is good, because they fucking sucked tonight and Robbie’s sure they’d hear all about it from Caps fans. They grab a table toward the back, and it takes awhile for the waitress to come serve them, long enough that Robbie’s half decided to go order from the bar. When she finally arrives, Robbie doesn’t even let her get through her spiel before he orders for the table. 

“Shots,” Robbie says, “Lots of shots.”

“Shots?” Wheels asks dubiously.

“All the shots,” Robbie tells the waitress. “All of them. Whatever kind of booze you want. Surprise us.”

“Twelve to start, then?” she asks.

“To start,” Robbie agrees.

She comes back with vodka, which is boring but a pretty safe bet, Robbie guesses. Some of the dudes do their shots properly, but Georgie and Poulin both pussy out after one. 

“Fine, then,” Robbie says. “Give ‘em here.”

“Robbie,” Georgie says.

“Drink it or slide it over, Georgie,” Robbie says, and Georgie’s knocking it back before Robbie’s finished speaking. “Pooh?”

“Go ahead,” Poulin says, sliding it across the table.

The guys order beers when the waitress comes back, soon enough that Robbie figures she was keeping an eye on them. Kind of money they’re going to be dropping, makes sense. 

“And another round of shots,” Robbie adds. “Jack Daniels.”

“I really don’t—” Poulin says.

“On me,” Robbie says. “You don’t wanna drink it, I will.”

“Another round,” the waitress confirms. 

“Fucking right,” Robbie says.

*

Robbie both loves and hates Skype. Like obviously it’s better that he can actually _see_ Georgie, not just hear him, and he can’t deny that watching Georgie jerk off is a massive upgrade on phone sex, though that has its place, but Robbie kind of hates how much they’re stuck relying on it, on technology in general. Every day there’s texts, most days a call of at least a couple minutes, Skype whenever they can, which isn’t as much as Robbie would like, especially during road trips, because Georgie has a roommate and it’s probably rude to kick him out so you can jerk off with your boyfriend.

Georgie’s at home tonight. He looks tired, washed out, and fucking amazing, all at once. Robbie doesn’t think he’ll ever stop feeling personally attacked by Georgie’s perfect fucking face.

“One week,” Georgie says. He’s flying home for Christmas, and Robbie’s going to Providence. His parents don’t necessarily like that he’s flaking out on the big ol’ Lombardi Christmas, but they’re letting him on the condition he spends Christmas Eve with them, which he resents but can’t really argue. 

They have two days together before Georgie goes back. Georgie booked a hotel room for them so they could actually sleep together — and other things — which the Dineens also didn’t particularly like, but also gave in on. Robbie hasn’t been so excited for Christmas since he still believed in _Santa_. He saw Georgie for like, a few whole hours in November when the Barons came in to serve as cannon fodder for the Bruins — Robbie was a little conflicted about that, as both a Bruins fan and the boyfriend of a guy who went minus three in the game — but the Dineens were there too. Other than that, it’s been since August.

“One week,” Robbie says.

Georgie touches his fingers to his screen, and Robbie does the same.

“Gonna jerk off for me?” Robbie asks.

Georgie laughs, but he isn’t saying no. He’s unselfconscious about it, fucking shameless, actually, and Robbie loves it.

*

Robbie’s feeling pretty good. Robbie’s aware that if he thinks about anything too long: that loss, the fact that Matty doesn’t want to talk to him, Georgie sitting across from him, gorgeous and infuriating — if he thinks about anything he’s going to feel like shit. Right now he’s trying not to ignore all the shit, just focus on the buzz, the warmth winding its way through him, and it’s mostly working.

There’s a guy who’s been looking at him off and on, reminds him of Ottawa, kind of, though this guy’s older, more Robbie’s type. It’s tempting to go for it — it’s easier every time, easiest when the weight of Georgie’s stare pushes him forward.

Poulin’s yapping about his sister’s curling shit, the most Canadian fucking cliche, and Robbie interrupts. “I think that guy was looking at me,” Robbie says. “What do you think, Wheels?”

“I think that guy was looking at you because you’re being _loud_ ,” Georgie says.

“Fuck off, Georgie,” Robbie says. “What, you can’t handle someone else—”

“Robbie, I think you’re going to want to be careful about what you say right now,” Georgie says, leaning in over the table, voice low. “Because I don’t think you want to have this conversation in front of our teammates.”

He doesn’t, Georgie’s right. Robbie fucking hates that Georgie’s right.

“He’s looking at me,” Robbie says, turning away and pretending Georgie doesn’t exist. He wishes he didn’t. “I think I’m gonna go over.”

“I don’t really think that’s a good idea, Bardi,” Wheels says. Wheels is usually the first to be fucking game to wingman. Everyone’s acting like a bunch of prissy bitches lately.

“Fuck all of you,” Robbie says, and gets up.

*

The start of the season starts out a little wobbly for Georgie. Robbie thought — he thinks they both thought — that was pretty normal shit, that Georgie would adjust in a matter of weeks and go back to being a fucking boss. Maybe not like Calder level, but up there. In October they say he’s going to activate in November, in November, December. Robbie isn’t the only one who was telling him that, he’s sure, knows he has to be getting it from the Dineens, the Barons, because whenever Robbie says it Georgie will let out this sigh like he’s tired of hearing it. Rookie years are adjustments, though, and even Georgie can fail at first. Robbie knows he’ll get it eventually. He has faith and shit. More than that, he knows exactly how good Georgie is.

January, Georgie still isn’t playing well, and it’s frustrating the fuck out of him. Robbie gets that, would feel the same in his place. He’s doing pretty great on his own end, and he knows it’s getting to Georgie. It was kind of subtle at first, but basically every conversation they have now involves Georgie’s frustration like a thread on the verge of snapping, and it always comes closest when they talk about the Terriers.

“Saw the game against Harvard,” Georgie says.

“We wiped the fucking ice with them, huh?” Robbie says.

“You were fucking hot,” Georgie says. “Seriously, did Reisman give you a hug for single-handedly saving his shutout?”

“And bought me a drink,” Robbie says.

“Glad you’re being treated right,” Georgie says.

“Nobody treats me right like you, boo,” Robbie says.

Georgie laughs, but it’s kind of strained.

“What’s up, G?” Robbie asks.

“What if I can’t play without you?” Georgie asks. “Like what if you’re the only reason I’m good.”

“Don’t be fucking stupid. You were a first round pick, dipshit,” Robbie says. “Get out of your head.”

“I’m trying,” Georgie says.

“Try harder,” Robbie says.

“Yeah,” Georgie says. “How’s everything else?” 

“Eh,” Robbie says. “Same old.”

More and more they’ve just been talking about shit Georgie’s been up to. It isn’t Georgie’s fault, it’s not like he doesn’t want to hear about BU — he asks Robbie every time — it’s just that Georgie’s stories are like, ‘a fucking Norris Trophy Winner got drunk and hugged me and ruffled my hair and called me a good kid when we were out in LA last night’, and Robbie’s stories are like, ‘Cassidy and I didn’t leave the library for fourteen hours, and last night I saw numbers in my sleep’. They’re not really comparable. Robbie knows Georgie would argue if he put it that way, but they feel petty, and whenever Georgie responds with ‘wish I was there’ or something, Robbie gets pissed, because if he really wanted to — it’s stupid. No one gets their shot at the NHL and wishes they were tromping around the snow stressing about grades again.

“Fuck, I really miss playing with you,” Georgie says, and like, every call seems to include ‘I miss you’, especially lately, but for some reason this hits harder.

“Me too,” Robbie manages. 

*

The guy who’s looking at Robbie is still looking at him, looks at him the whole time Robbie’s walking over to him.

“Hey,” Robbie says. “You were looking at me.”

“Um,” the guy says. “I’m — I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“No?” Robbie asks, “Because if you wanted to—”

Robbie’s interrupted by a hand landing heavily on his shoulder.

“What the hell are you doing, Robbie?” Georgie asks.

“Get off me,” Robbie snaps. Georgie pulls him bodily away from the dude, fingers digging into Robbie’s arm.

“You’re drunk, you’re obvious, and everyone’s watching,” Georgie hisses, low. “You want to be on Deadspin tomorrow? Because you keep this up, you’re going to be on there for hitting a guy or hitting _on_ a guy, and your mom’s going to fucking _cry_ , which I don’t think you want.”

Robbie wrenches his arm back, starts walking back toward the guys, but they _are_ all watching, this silent judgy committee, and Robbie can’t deal with that shit. He turns on his heel and walks outside, Georgie practically on his heels. 

“Fuck off,” Robbie says.

“No,” Georgie says. “You want me to get Dougie or whoever out here instead, I’ll get them out here, but I’m not leaving you alone right now.”

“Since when do you fucking care?” Robbie snaps.

“You want to be pissed at me, you are welcome to be pissed at me, but don’t start revising our history and expecting me to go along with it,” Georgie says. “You know I care about you.”

“Just not as much as you care about getting your dick wet,” Robbie sneers.

Georgie looks around, and that’s when Robbie realizes they’re in fucking public. It’s deserted outside, thankfully, night too cold for anyone to linger, but it might not stay that way, especially since the Caps are fucking nosy.

“We talking about this?” Georgie asks.

“We’re fucking talking about this,” Robbie says.

“Good,” Georgie says, then starts walking away.

“The fuck, Georgie?” Robbie calls after him.

“You want to do this where anyone can hear?” Georgie asks. 

“Fine,” Robbie snaps, and follows him.

*

Robbie and Georgie are playing the most intense, ridiculous game of telephone tag fucking ever. It’s not like they’re not talking, because texting is still a thing, facebook messages if it’s something longer, like Robbie spamming Georgie with the lyrics of the latest song stuck in his head, or Georgie copy-pasting a flattering profile he read about Robbie after a triumphant Terriers game, but Georgie’s on his longest road trip of the year, unhelpfully three hours behind right now, Robbie’s been struggling mightily in one of his classes, like, shit scared for his GPA mightily, and they keep missing one another.

Robbie’s hearing Georgie’s voice solely from voicemail, messages ranging from “I guess I missed you, I’ll call you again when I have a moment”, to “Fuck. Okay, I love you, bye.”, leaves almost identical messages on Georgie’s. It feels fucking stupid, but texting isn’t the same as hearing him, the intimacy of Georgie’s breath in his ear, even if it’s a million fucking miles away. He’d take Skype over either of them, but they can’t even manage a two minute conversation right now, and every Skype date they tentatively set gets canceled.

Robbie knew long distance would be hard, knew it when they were still together every day, knew it when summer meant they were away from each other more than they were together. He knew it’d be hard. 

He doesn’t think he knew how hard it’d be.

Robbie finally catches Georgie, and so many things have happened since they last talked to each other, nothing important, but _things_ , things Robbie would have told him about, but none of them seem worth talking about now. He doesn’t really know what to say. He’s never been at a loss for words, especially with Georgie, but right now, he is.

“So this is weird,” Robbie lands on, once the awkward stretch of silence has become unbearable.

Georgie laughs, and Robbie hates the fucking sound of it, because it’s the saddest laugh he’s ever heard.

*

Georgie doesn’t make him go far, just to the wide alley beside the bar. The wind cuts off once they step into the sheltered spot, and Robbie only realizes then how cold he is. Georgie’s wearing his coat, like he was fucking psychic or something, and Robbie shivers and resents it. He’d go back in, get his own, but he can’t go back in there, face the guys. He can’t seem to leave either, feels rooted to the spot.

Georgie shrugs his coat off. “Here,” he says.

“Don’t play at fucking —” Robbie starts.

“I’m not playing at anything,” Georgie interrupts, sounding tired. “You get cold easily, I don’t. Just take the damn coat, Robbie.”

Robbie holds out for a few seconds, but his teeth are chattering and the coat’s warm-looking wool, drooping heavily from Georgie’s grip almost to the snowy ground.

Robbie snatches it, shrugs it on. Doesn’t say thank you.

This is when the Georgie Robbie knew would say, “You’re welcome, babe,” with a quirk of his lips. Tonight he doesn’t say anything.

The coat’s still warm from Georgie’s body, smells like him in a way Robbie can’t peg — not his aftershave, because it’s different now, or deodorant or shampoo or anything, just — Georgie. Robbie wants to throw it on the fucking ground, but it’s warm, satin soft on the inside, and he’s so cold.

“You can say whatever you want,” Georgie says. 

“Thanks for the permission,” Robbie mutters.

“But can I say one thing first?” Georgie asks.

“Put us out of our misery,” Robbie says, waits for some bullshit excuse three years past the point it would have meant shit, has a sardonic laugh waiting.

“I’m really worried about you,” Georgie says.

The laugh comes, but it’s ugly, bitter. “You’re worried about me,” Robbie repeats.

“This isn’t _like_ you, Robbie,” Georgie says. 

“The fuck do you—” Robbie starts.

“Don’t tell me I don’t know you,” Georgie says. “And don’t act like you’re someone who does this now. Your friends are _freaking_ out, there is no way this is something you do.”

“So why do you give a fuck?” Robbie asks.

“Because I give a fuck about you?” Georgie says. “I know you think I don’t, you made that clear, and that’s fine, I can’t make you believe me. But I fucking care, Robbie, and you’re scaring me.”

“Why?” Robbie asks. “Because I’m acting like you? You actually care or you just hate the fact that I’m fucking guys that aren’t you?”

“You can do whatever you want,” Georgie says. “But I don’t think you want this.”

“Why am I doing it, then, huh?” Robbie asks. 

“I don’t know,” Georgie says. “Do you?”

“What the fuck is that psychobabble bullshit?” Robbie asks. “You’ve probably completely turned this around to make it about you, haven’t you? Poor fucking Robbie, it’s pathetic isn’t it, how clearly this is all about me.”

“I never said anything like that,” Georgie says.

“And you’re always — God, I fucking hate you,” Robbie spits. “But by all fucking means, keep grinding my fucking face in the fact that I’m hung up on you by never fucking going away!”

“You’re hung up on me?” Georgie asks, so quiet Robbie almost doesn’t catch it.

“Yes, great, I’m not fucking over you! Congratu-fucking-lations!” Robbie yells. “Does it help your ridiculous ego to know that you’re —”

Georgie kisses him.

Robbie wants to haul off and punch Georgie in the face. 

Robbie _should_ haul off and punch Georgie in the face, mess up that pretty fucking picture. Should bite down and make him bleed, should bring a knee up right into his balls and kick him while he’s down.

Robbie kisses Georgie back.


End file.
